Gypsy King
by BamfIsAwesome
Summary: Quasimodo's opinion of Clopin at varying points in the first film. Chap 3; More about Quasi's parents. I put it as Mystery because that's what Clopin is!
1. Enigma

**Gypsy King**

**This is basically Quasi's thoughts on Clopin in the first film. Simple as. I'm pretending he talked to Esme about Clopin when they were in the tower together. Just… roll with it. Hope you enjoy.**

He had been so confused. Initially, the figure prancing about in bright colours and little bells had been amusing, but his continued persistence at trying to get Quasimodo more involved in the Feast of Fools despite his attempts to hide had gotten… well, a little frightening. He didn't want to be seen and called a monster, even though he was. Or at least thought he was.

Though the answer still eluded him, Quasimodo had thought Clopin (though he hadn't known his name at the time) had known who he was, what with the sly glances and conspiratorial winks. Although he didn't know how, he was almost certain the gypsy did. But when the crowd had done exactly as Frollo had said they would, he had leapt to the forefront and calmed them. The bell ringer remembered perfectly; "Ladies and gentlemen; don't panic! We _asked_ for the ugliest face in Paris, and here he is! Quasimodo, Hunchback of Notre Dame!"

He hadn't been offended- he _was_ ugly, a simple fact. But this time… it had been a good thing. For a little bit, at least.

That was what he had asked Esmeralda about later, when they'd both been in the bell tower. Why had Clopin led the crowd in crowning Quasimodo the King of Fools, but hadn't intervened when it had all gone wrong?

"It's not that he doesn't care. Clopin acts like a kid sometimes… well, okay, a lot of the time. But he's had a tough life. He's learned the hard way that you can't save everyone, that sometimes standing up for other people doesn't get you anywhere, that sometimes it's best to just stay out of it. He's the King of the Gypsies, and he already puts every single one of us before himself, but there's only so much he can do." Esmeralda knew him personally and Quasimodo trusted her word, though he didn't quite understand.

Later on, it had made more sense. He and Phoebus had been standing at the gallows in the Court of Miracles, Quasimodo torn between fear for himself, Phoebus, Esmeralda and confusion over Clopin. It was clear he remembered the one he'd crowned King of Fools, but had seen him only as intruder and enemy. He'd been animatedly jumping around, singing his heart out and looking like he was enjoying himself despite (or because of) the morbid topic, yet at the same time seemed almost… detached. His darker outfit made him look the part too; he was like a different person.

The abrupt clothes changes on the platform had been even more baffling, how he changed so fast and where he kept the clothes on his person being the most obvious questions; Quasimodo had been unable to focus his panicked mind until Clopin had changed into an executioner's outfit. Consequently, he had been shirtless.

Phoebus hadn't noticed; he'd been too busy willing daggers to fire from his eyes and embed themselves in the back of the Gypsy King's head. But Quasimodo had. The entirety of Clopin's back had been covered in jagged, gruesome scars. Coming from the Hunchback of Notre Dame, the word 'gruesome' carried great weight. There were several criss-cross marks across his back that looked like they had come from a whip, all of them obvious and likely had been deep. There were a few others overlaying them that seemed to have come from flayed whips, multiple scars left at the end of the whiplash by the thongs. The others all appeared to have been caused by serrated blades and… there were a few that were similar to what Quasimodo assumed a lash from a length of chain would look like.

And it had made more sense. It's all very good defying the majority of the population as long as you can get away with it, but sometimes you can't… Clopin had stood up for people once, but the price had become more than he could bear. He had learned to turn a blind eye to the sufferings of others, as he would be of no use to anyone beaten senseless, imprisoned or dead.

After Frollo's fall from the roof of Notre Dame, when that little girl had come forward and _hugged_ him- hugged _him!_- he had heard Clopin's voice above them all; "Three cheers, for _QUASIMODO!_" And he had sung again, but this song had moved the deformed young man deeply.

"_Here is a riddle to guess if you can, sing the Bells of Notre Dame…_

_What makes a monster and what makes a man?"_

From his position above the crowd, he had turned to glance at Clopin appreciatively, truly touched, but the gypsy's attentions had been elsewhere. That same little girl had been in Clopin's arms, looking up at him trustingly. She seemed to know him, and as he sang he produced a little Frollo hand puppet and made her giggle, a tender smile adorning his face.

"_Whatever their pitch you can feel them bewitch you, the rich and the ritual knells…_

_Of the Bells of Notre Dame!"_

Yes, Quasimodo thought to himself, Clopin was alright really. And the first thing he had done once he'd gotten back to the tower was sit down and start carving another little Esmeralda figurine to replace the burned one, followed by one in the likeness of Clopin. And the next time he saw him, Quasimodo resolved that he would speak to the older man. About what, he wasn't sure… his puppets maybe, or his singing. He wanted to compliment the Gypsy King, partly because he was important to Esmeralda but also because he felt that he deserved it. He was a good man, really. People just couldn't see that.

Quasi could certainly sympathise there.

**Mmm… I'm not sure I like it very much. Whatevs, tell me what you think and thanks for reading it :)**


	2. Truth

**Gypsy King**

***sigh* My oneshot has become a threeshot (there are so many 3-chap fics, it's a legitimate name) after the questions and request of my two reviewers (you know who you are). Okay, some canon one-sided Quasi/Esme, 'cause it's kinda important to the film. Okay, this might be technically a songfic, BUT (and this is a big but) it is the song Bells of Notre Dame, as sung by Clopin. It's also a hell of a lot longer than the last one as a result. Enjoy!**

Okay… this was slightly scary.

Quasimodo was wandering the streets of Paris. Alone. Nobody kicked up a fuss or looked at him askance, but people still looked and it was still… unnerving, being out in the open- _alone_- after so long of being the hidden, hideous monster in the bell tower.

He wasn't really sure why he was out here. Usually he came out with Esmeralda to go to market or see her performances, but today he'd decided he knew his way around enough and he didn't want to disturb her, though he was still unsure as to his purposes. He was beginning to regret that now; it was so much easier with her supporting him with her presence and friendship.

Friendship… _No, don't think about it, not now. Never again…_

He was mercifully distracted from this masochistic line of thought by that same little girl in her purple dress. She ran up to him out of the crowd, a happy smile lighting up her pretty face. "Bonjour Monsieur Quasimodo!"

"Um… h-hello." He mentally berated himself. Here she was, being so polite and he was tripping up over a simple 'hello'!

"Ma mere reminded me I didn't tell you my name. Je m'appelle Isobelle."

Quasi smiled. "It's nice to meet you again, Isobelle. I… you already know my name." He finished weakly.

Isobelle just giggled, taking his large hand in her own, much smaller one. "Come! Clopin is doing his puppet show!"

Quasimodo quietly allowed himself to be led through the crowd. He remembered Clopin's puppets, both the one in his likeness from the Court of Miracles and the little Frollo one he entertained Isobelle with. Perhaps that was how she knew him? She did seem quite excited. According to Esmeralda, Clopin was one heck of a performer, whether it be more adult entertainment for older audiences or safer little skits for children, he just knew what to say and do, how to say and do it, and his boundless energy made it real.

_If anything_, he remembered her say, _his children's' performances are more genuine. There's always a sense of distaste and mockery when involving more crude humour for the larger Parisian populace, and it's well-founded._ She had not explained further and Quasimodo had not inquired.

He saw a wooden cart come into view, a window cut in the side, decorated like a little stage; or puppet theatre. As expected, Clopin was there in the window, smiling away in his gaudy but fun performance dress. The clothes were clearly old and worn, but well cared for. Unless one counted the miss-matched colours, there were no outstanding patches or stitches from mending tears or things of the like. Every bell was in place, shiny and jingling. The colours were bright and unfaded despite the strenuous exercise it went through simply existing on Clopin's form, as the man simply oozed energy and a person could be made weary just watching him stand there now. For a moment, Quasimodo wondered why Clopin still wore his mask, as his identity was no longer as well-kept a secret and his people were not as mercilessly hunted as they had been under Frollo's rule. Though that question was quickly answered; the royal purple accessory with its gold trim completed the outfit, and it wouldn't look quite right were the mask absent.

There were already a group of children ranging from about five to twelve gathered there, laughing, as Clopin had just been arguing with his look-alike puppet over something. He glanced up as Isobelle waved, and Puppet waved back, before Clopin hit him with a little stick and waved with his free hand. He looked thoughtful for a moment, then devious as he winked at Quasimodo. Then he started to sing.

"_Morning in Paris, the city awakes, to the Bells of Notre Dame._

_The fisherman fishes, the bakerman bakes, to the Bells of Notre Dame._

_To the big bells as loud as the thunder,_

_To the little bells soft as a psalm,_

_And some say the soul of the city's the toll of the bells…_

_The Bells of Notre Dame."_

Quasimodo smiled; though he knew from Esmeralda that the gypsies did not believe in the Christian faith, it warmed his heart that they still appreciated the bells. The bell ringer loved them, and still returned to his tower to sound them himself, despite the offers from the Archdeacon to hire another. Still, quite honestly, Clopin could have been singing about mud and the eldest in his audience wouldn't have much minded- the gypsy had the most magnificent voice!

He stopped singing now, Puppet having disappeared, and instead began to speak. "Listen; they're beautiful, no? So many colours of sound, so many changing moods…"

Again, the deformed young man felt his heart swell at this depth of knowledge regarding the bells. So many people heard only the very basics of the sound produced, nothing more. Nothing of the very life of the music.

In the meantime, Clopin had leaned over the edge of his window, almost as if imparting some great secret. "…Because you know, they don't ring all by themselves."

Puppet popped up once more with an awestruck, "They _don't?_"

"No, you silly boy." Clopin scolded lightly. He tugged some string which pulled back a curtain; conveniently placed so as to give a view of Notre Dame's bell tower. "Up there, high, high in the dark bell tower, there lives a mysterious bell ringer." He spoke as if solely to his puppet, though the words were spoken clearly for the audience. Quasimodo was struck by the sudden realisation that Clopin meant _him. _He looked down at the children without meaning to, subconsciously gauging their reaction. Their mouths were slightly agape, and they seemed torn between leaning in and leaning away.

Isobelle spotted this and glanced up at him with an encouraging smile before whispering, "Don't worry, I've heard this one before." _That_ was the real shock. So… Clopin _had_ known who he was? Or had this been in the past week he had performed it?

"Well, we now know _who_ he is," He threw another wink at Quasi, though most of the children had not noticed him at the back and thought nothing of Clopin's action, so engrossed were they.

Puppet jumped in here, arms above him, "Who!"

"We most certainly know _what_ he is." His tone was slightly laughing, as if Quasi being anything other than human was some ridiculous superstition that left Clopin wondering how anyone had ever believed it.

Puppet made a strange little gesture here, one hand on his hip and the other twirling a circle around beside his head, the universal sign for 'cuckoo', "What!"

"But how did he come to be there?" Quasimodo's eyes widened. _That_ caught his attention. It was quite obvious where this was going, and the young man was suddenly filled with a deep longing, and the oddly certain feeling that Clopin _knew_, and he longed for the tale to be told. He wanted to know the truth, not try to figure out what it was past Frollo's lies.

"How?" Just as he flung his arms to the side the same little stick collided with Puppet's wooden head, eliciting more laughter from the children and for a moment Quasimodo could have sworn it wore a dazed expression in place of its painted smile.

"Hush!" Clopin ordered sternly as the little puppet rubbed its head with both hands.

"Oww…" He shook his head comically, before seemingly forgetting the assault and leaned inquisitively towards his puppeteer as the man spoke.

"And Clopin will tell you." His tone had changed to suspenseful and foreboding, clearly addressing the audience, and Quasi knew the story was about to begin. "It is a tale, a tale of a man… and a _monster…_"

As the story was told, Clopin had several other puppets acting it out. This was undoubtedly what the children saw, but Quasimodo saw much more. Whilst the song enveloped his senses, the street vanished and the scene from the story- his past- unfolded around him, the sound of a baby crying filling the air…

"_Dark was the night when our tale was begun, on the docks near Notre Dame."_

"Shut it up, will you?" The harsh, urgent tone was belied by the gentle touch, the large man's hand momentarily cupping the baby's head and mother's hand before he looked around again.

The next man held not the same sentiments. "We'll be spotted!"

"Hush, little one!" Came the mother's quiet, plaintive cry, which was quickly obeyed by the baby.

"_Four frightened gypsies slid silently under the docks, near Notre Dame."_

The second man had already leapt out of the boat, as the first man helped the mother- his wife?- step onto land, facing a fourth man who had steered the boat.

He held out a hand, his ugly face hard as stone. "Four guilders for safe passage into Paris." A greedy smile spread across his face, but it quickly fell when an arrow slammed into the wood in his hand.

Soldiers fired at them from one side, more pouring down the stairs and cutting off that route of escape. The gypsies fell back, the first man keeping the mother and child behind him, drawing a weapon and knocking aside one spear in an attempt to get as far from harm as possible.

"_But a trap had been laid for the gypsies, and they gazed up in fear and alarm,_

_At a figure whose clutches were iron as much as the bells."_

They turned as a horse and rider came up behind them, the first man's eyes widening in fear. "Judge Clause Frollo!"

"_The Bells of Notre Dame"_

More voices rose out of the darkness, singing in Latin._**Kyrie**____**eleison**__**…**_

"_Judge Claude Frollo longed to purge the world of vice and sin."_

_**Kyrie**____**eleison**__**…**_

The first man drew closer to the mother, slowly moving to hold her and the child before he was grabbed and yanked away by the soldiers and shackled with the other men and dragged away.

"_And he saw corruption everywhere, except within…"_

"Bring these gypsy vermin to the Palace of Justice." He commanded, looking down at the gypsies like they were filth on the sole of his boot.

"You there!" One soldier took hold of the mother, who was trying to sneak away, her precious bundle clutched to her chest as she hunched over it protectively. At his touch, she tried to run but was held back. "What are you hiding!"

"Stolen goods, no doubt." Frollo declared dispassionately. "Take them from her!"

Lightning flashed, and Clopin's face loomed through the following darkness._ "She ran!"_

The mother had ducked down a snowy alley and was running for her own and her baby's life, glancing back over her shoulder in terror at the monstrous black stallion and it's even more monstrous rider. The many voices rose up again, more prominent this time.

_**Dies irae,**_

_**(Dies irae)**_

The mother turned, the horse skidding past as she darted up a stairway.

_**Dies **__**illa**__**,**_

_**(Dies **__**illa**__**)**_

She was slowing down, gasping painfully for breath as the horse caught up with her, Frollo slamming a tavern sign away from his face as he rode.

_**Solvet**____**saeclem**__** in **__**favilla**__**,**_

_**Teste**__** David cum **__**sibylla**__**.**_

The woman, baby cradled securely in one arm, vaulted over a fence between two buildings, Frollo coming up short and having to find another way around, which he wasted little time in doing.

_**Quantus**____**tremor**__** est **__**futurus**__**,**_

_**Quando**____**iudex**__** est **__**venturus**__**.**_

She ran up the steps of Notre Dame, throwing herself at the door and pounding as hard as she could. "Sanctuary, please give us sanctuary!" She cried desperately, but she was not heard and Frollo was approaching again.

_**Solvet**____**saeclum**__** in **__**favilla**_

She was frozen for a moment in terror as he charged her like some nightmare, an evil shadow against the snow, before she bolted again.

_**(Dies **__**irae**__**)**_

He was gaining. He came alongside her and grabbed the wrapping of the bundle. She held on, consumed by such great terror she could barely think, and Frollo kicked out at her.

_**Solvet**____**saeclum**__** in **__**favilla**_

She fell hard and awkwardly upon the steps, her neck breaking at the force and angle. Frollo simply stared, face devoid of emotion as his horse panted heavily, breath coming in great plumes of fog as snow fell again.

_**Dies irae.**_

After all of that, only now did the baby begin to cry once more, the comfort of its mother strangely absent. Frollo stared at it in bewilderment.

"A baby?" He spoke aloud, incredulously pulling back some of the blanket. His eyes widened and he gasped in horror, recoiling. "A monster!" He promptly covered it again and glanced wildly about him, as if searching for some way to dispose of it.

_**Solvet saeclum in favilla,**_

_**Dies irae,**_

_**Dies irae!**_

A well. His face became a cold mask of hard indifference as he trotted over, holding the baby with one hand over the water, loosening his grip as the many voices grew louder and more frenzied, though by now words had been forsaken.

Lightning flashed again, and for a second it was Clopin, bells and all, standing valiantly before Frollo, hand outstretched, face set in grim determination as a voice rang out, "_STOP!_"

The next second it was another familiar face. _"Cried the Archdeacon!"_

"This is an unholy demon. I'm sending it back to Hell, where it belongs." Frollo spat.

He was not listening; the Archdeacon was knelt in the snow, cradling the gypsy woman's body in his arms, sorrow on his usually warm face. "See there the innocent blood you have spilt, on the steps of Notre Dame."

"I am guiltless; she ran, I pursued." The judge defended nonchalantly.

"Now you would add this child's blood to your guilt, on the steps of Notre Dame?" His voice held an undertone of accusation.

Frollo sounded irritated as he snapped. "My conscience is clear!"

"You can lie to yourself and your minions!" The Archdeacon was angry now, it was plain to see. "You can claim that you haven't a qualm; but you never can run from nor hide what you've done from the eyes!" He pointed past Frollo, towards the church. "The very eyes of Notre Dame!"

_**Kyrie**____**eleison**__**!**_

Frollo turned, and suddenly Notre Dame herself was bearing down upon him with the weight of God, witness to the heinous crime committed there and wielding His might.

"_And for one time in his life of power and control,"_

_**Kyrie**____**eleison**__**…**_

"_Frollo felt a twinge of fear, for his immortal soul."_

Lightning flashed once more and thunder crashed overhead, Frollo's wide, frightened eyes focused on the cathedral as he questioned the Archdeacon, "What must I do?"

The holy man was already partway to the door, the mother in his arms, and he turned back, his face grave. "Care for the child, and raise it as your own."

"_What! _I am to be saddled with this misshapen-?" His look of disgust became something else, something unidentifiable. "Very well. But let him live with you in your church."

"Live here?" The Archdeacon repeated incredulously. "Where?"

"_Anywhere._" Was the reply. "Just so he's kept locked away where no one else can see…" He looked over the building, seemingly surveying his options. "The bell tower, perhaps. And who knows? Our Lord works in mysterious ways." He looked down at the child again, who had remained silent all this time. "Even this foul creature may yet prove one day to be… of use… to me…" His face spread into a malicious grin.

Red fabric swirled before the young man's eyes, settling about the shoulders of Clopin as his cart came back into view and the images faded as if they were a mere dream, but Clopin's face and voice were as grave as the Archdeacon's, and his next words proved that what had been seen was not formed solely by the mind.

"And Frollo gave the child a cruel name, a name that means 'half-formed'; _Quasimodo._" That little Frollo puppet appeared now, carrying a fabric bundle before vanishing into the cathedral, before shadow puppets appeared behind the translucent windows; Frollo and a young hunchback climbing the stairs, then in the next window it was just the hunchback, older and alone, before finally climbing a ladder and pulling a string, the shadow-bell swinging back and forth…

"_Now here is a riddle, to guess if you can, sing the Bells of Notre Dame;_

_Who is the monster and who is the man?"_

The bells rang out through Quasimodo's mind as he watched the shadow puppets, a vision of himself performing the same action flashing through his awareness.

"_Sing the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells of Notre Dame!"_

The clear, powerful note pierced the air, giving Quasi chills. There was silence as all stood in awe, before clapping and cheering exploded around them. Through the course of the story, the bell ringer found, that the original audience of him, Isobelle and some children had grown to half of the people in this street.

Clopin's puppets each took a bow, before he did the same, holding his hat out before him in what appeared to be a gesture of humility. Some coins were thrown into it, and still more people came forth and gave him handfuls.

It took a while for the people to clear, but once they did, it was only Quasimodo, Isobelle and Clopin, who leapt through the window and stood before the other two. A smile, more enigmatic and mysterious than any Quasimodo had ever seen on the Gypsy King's face, stretched before him.

"Well?"

**HA! Gotcha! What did you think? Please drop a review! I'm much more pleased with this chapter. The next will hold the following conversation; it was all a bit much to put in one. Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it! Latin translations below (it's not the same without the Latin!)**

**Dies irae= Day of wrath**

**Dies illa= That day**

**Solvet saeclum in favilla= Will dissolve the world in ashes**

**Teste David cum sibylla= As foretold by David and the sibyl**

**Quantus tremor est futurus= How much tremor there will be**

**Quando iudex est venturus= When the judge will come**


	3. Secret

**I'm back! Sorry about the long wait, these past few weeks have been hectic :) Now, after much debate, I have decided this will still be in Quasi's POV, and since Clopin is unlikely to give a lot away, he'll just have to remain… a mystery. Enjoy!**

Quasimodo's mind was full to the brim with questions, all swirling around his head like a maelstrom. He opened his mouth to try and give voice to these questions, but what instead came out was "Esmeralda was right."

That smile stayed in place, but one elegant eyebrow raised in question, eyes twinkling in amusement.

"I…" Quasimodo hesitated, unsure of how to proceed. "Um, Esme told me a lot about your performances."

"I see. It seems my reputation precedes me." Clopin's smile widened. "And? Did I live up to your expectations?"

The younger man nodded vigorously. "Yes, oh yes! It was wonderful, it really was! You-you're an amazing singer."

Something in those dark orbs flickered in the face of such earnest, but it was gone as quickly as it came. He whipped his hat off in another gallant bow. "I am glad to see that my talents please you."

Quasimodo hesitated here again, unnerved by Clopin's tone. He was abruptly reminded of Isobelle's presence when she squeezed his hand again. He shot her a quick but sincere smile. "I, um… I have some… some questions, if-if that's okay?"

"But of course!" The gypsy grinned broadly. "I shall answer any and all inquiries to the best of my ability."

The bell ringer smiled again briefly, aimed at Clopin this time. "Did you… know my mother?" He asked quietly.

"Your parents were close friends of the Gypsy King of the time." Quasimodo's eyes widened. "They were nomads, but often stopped by in Paris to visit the Court of Miracles."

"What were they like?" Shyness forgotten, the young man's curiosity outweighed his awkwardness, though a small voice warned him that he might not be told.

Fortunately, Clopin seemed forthcoming with the information, though he chuckled at what he must have perceived as childishness. "Votre mère was called Marianne; a compassionate woman, quiet, kind, very pretty. She would often tell stories to the children, who adored her. She was a magnifique cook as well, if memory serves."

Quasi smiled; that fit the picture his mind had more recently painted of his mother. "She sounds like a wonderful woman."

"She was." Clopin agreed. "Votre père was similar, an open and kind man; Christophe was his name. He was also quite competitive, and would often partake in bets and challenges with his friends. He had a strong sense of justice too; true justice, that is. He was stubborn, often going against the grain. A swordsman instead of a performer, pour exemple. It wasn't for lack of trying, but anywhere other than on both feet that man had no balance, and his voice acting was positively dire. I was fortunate that he did not try anything along the line of music whilst I was present, as I was informed that the King at the time of his first and only attempt threatened to banish him if he did not pack it in!" He laughed, and Quasimodo found himself laughing too. He'd never really thought about his father…

"The last time they returned to Paris was intended to be that; the last time. Marianne had birthed you early, and they were going to raise you in the Court with us. We did not know about Frollo's trap. By the time the news reached us, it was too late, for both of them."

Quasimodo just nodded, still taking it all in. He wasn't really looking at Clopin anymore, or anyone.

"You are more like them than you may think."

Green eyes snapped into focus, but Clopin was gone. Quasi blinked in confusion, before he heard the sound of someone moving around inside the puppet cart and saw a flash of purple through the window. He wanted to ask more, about how Clopin knew so much about them, but left him be. He had quite clearly signalled the end of the conversation.

Isobelle giggled and called 'au revoir' to Clopin, before taking the bell ringer's hand again and leading him away, chattering about anything and everything. Quasimodo listened intently, but always the new information was at the back of his mind.

Clopin sighed softly as sweet little Isobelle led her new friend away. In his memory, Christophe and Marianne had both had dark hair and eyes, typical of the gypsy people. He knew not where Quasimodo's red hair and green eyes had come from, but his heart and his spirit… he was every inch a de Villeroi.

Clopin still remembered when his Papa introduced him to his 'old friend' Christophe de Villeroi, and he remembered when Christophe came back one time with a woman he was courting. He remembered their wedding. He remembered sitting with the other children, listening to Marianne's stories. He remembered pestering Christophe to teach him swordplay, despite his Maman's obvious distaste for the violent skill.

"_Papa, when did Jean-Luc say Oncle Chris et Tante Mari' would be arriving with their new baby?"_

"… _They won't, Clopin."_

**I COULDN'T RESIST! What do you think?**


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